The Madcap Laughs
by psychedelicavenger
Summary: No eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn.
1. 1972 Bronze Medallist

"Alright listen, 'cause I got a special treat for you. It starts off kinda quiet so everyone just relax, take a few deep breaths, think about your eventual end and what's gonna happen tonight, and I'll try to do something good to your head." I called you up to anoint the Earth, I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin, I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster, and now I call on you to pray. Always a playground instructor, never a killer.

So this is some Zen and psychological ramblings of mine set to a story, I hope you like it but I'd like your feedback anyway.

**_DISCLAIMER OH SHI-_**I own nothing. Neither do you.

**The Bad Plus - 1972 Bronze Medallist**

12:27 AM. Blistering midday sunlight beams down on the Texas countryside. The highway is a stark grey contrast to the surprisingly colourful scenery; purples, pinks and greens overshadow the otherwise sandy terrain. The only sounds are of tires ripping one hundred and fourteen miles an hour down the road, dust and pebbles flying in my wake as Led-Zeppelin II roars out of the cheap car stereo, the bass and drums sound gritty and out of tune, however this was the best car that could be found on such short notice in the cool Mexican evening. I've been travelling from city to city Jack Kerouac style for the last ninety days or so; meeting people, philosophizing, drinking, and smoking cannabis the likes of which I had _never_ known in America. No complaints, no regrets, all but new memories.

No more than a few hours ago the border cop had squinted at me from behind his aviators, asked some routine questions and, after I declared only a single quart of tequila, sent me on my merry way. I conveniently neglected to mention the other three bottles, six ounces of grass, nine hits of acid, three remaining pellets of mescalin and the nine peyote buttons that I had gained access to thanks to a close friend who had trekked out into the Mexican desert to gather them for me. The trip seemed to be cursed from the beginning however, with Dean and his new wife, and poor Stan. What a doll Stan is, it's such a shame that fever of his made him cut out in a Mexico City hospital to recover before even two days of being in the country.

All that remains unaccounted for now is the bag of cocaine that is lost somewhere in the car. That's not for my use however, I only procured it to exploit capitalism all the way to Denver. In all honesty, I would much rather have lost the cocaine than my LSD. I hardly believed it when Carlo called me the other day (or was it year?) and told me about his link to some _antique _Point Richmond acid from 1966. I could have kissed the disease-ridden public telephone for hearing something so unexpected and too-good-to-be-true. So I picked up a dozen Sunshine blotters on the way to Carlo's home in Denver; in a questionable hazy kind of mindset, mind you.

My hair whips and flails around my face in a messy halo as the gale force wind is drawn through the cracked windows of the teal pickup truck. We groan along the smooth tar and the expanse of the gentle curves in the road and without warning, she begins to sputter and choke. I curse my misfortune and pull onto the shoulder lane. Then I catch a glimpse of the fuel gauge, "Oh that's extremely fucking helpful." My voice has the consistency of rumbling tides and texture of wet gravel, make of it what you will. I don't mind so much, mostly because it seems to be my Karma for some other goings-on, I like the sound of it anyway.

Evidently I must have messed with balance because the tank being empty seems to be my doing too. Either this is an occurrence of Karmic justice, or I have been taken for a fool by exchanging an ounce of grass for the use of a vehicle without bothering to check the state of the gas tank.

I sigh slowly. It will not do me any favours to waste time and energy harping on unchangeable circumstances. I swear again and snatch the trembling keys out of the ignition. "And this too will pass."

I heave my last aggravated sigh and go to shove the keys into my brown leather messenger bag, but my fingers hover over the bronze clasp as a thought enters my mind. Pausing for a second to think of the possible consequences, the one that jumps to the forefront of my mind is that I will become hopelessly lost and lose track of the car, it being the most convenient method of my return to Carlo's in Denver. With a shrug and an excited peal of laughter I weigh my options out and dig enthusiastically in the bag, fumbling my way blindly through its contents until my fingers close around a small salt-shaker. I spin the tin cap off with ease and extract two thin sheets of Owsley Purple. And placing them gently on my tongue I shut my mouth, sucking in my cheeks in anticipation before I screw the cap back on the shaker and stuff it safely back in its nook. I swing the bag around my head and I trap a lock of hair that tickles the crook of my neck. After flinging the door open with a reproachful creak, I hop out excitedly and swing the door shut, not bothering to lock it.

The gravel crunches under my moccasins to my childish satisfaction as I saunter down the side of the road to find a gas station. The only other noise is of bugs buzzing languidly, and loudly, in the heat. Jittery and sweating, I wonder briefly about the last time I had seen this highway, nearly three months ago. I recall that Eddie had decided to stay in Juarez with Tereasa, a silk haired Mexican native, whom he claimed to love. I had smiled earnestly and wished them well. He said he would marry her underneath a waterfall, both of them naked in the moonlight as they exchange vows of undying love, I was invited of course, but I regretfully declined so I could get a head start back home.

I enjoy the coarse feel of denim rubbing my thighs and unconsciously pick up my pace. When the rays of harsh sunlight whistle as they beat down on the road, the landscape in front of my eyes wavers, a hallucination from either the acid or the intense heat, there's no way to be sure, I enjoy it nonetheless. And humming a nonsensical tune in time with the sunlight I skip to the nearest sign of civilization: a carnival inspired building plastered with posters promising freaks of nature and fried chicken of the highest calibre, courtesy of a Captain Spaulding. The neon bright sign on the roof beckons, a shining beacon of madness in the middle of the day.

Calling out as I enter the main building, "Excuse meee..." It was at about this time I took note of the most unusual surroundings; the geometric shapes that grow spontaneously into immense statues, brightly adorned with jewels, although these seem unintentional pieces of the decor. The faces on the Wall of Shame wink at me and flicker in their frames and I stumble, enamoured, in the direction of the cash register.

What happened next is a horrible thing to happen to one on a head full of high quality LSD. A clown, in full makeup, jumps from some adjacent curtains, his grimy teeth are bared in what he meant to seem like a friendly gesture of welcome. It was misinterpreted, however, as an evil clown baring pointed and bloody teeth as if to say "I'll be eating your soul now, come closer!" With eyes as wide as dinner plates and my hair standing on end I back away in horror, blindly feeling for a way out.

"Aw man, look at _this _fucking clown!" I say miserably. I know it's a trip, but it's _some_ trip.

He looks at me with disdain. "Whatsa matter with clowns?"

"Everything. But only when they want to eat your soul. And it's Wednesday." Still, moving backwards turns out to be the bane of my existence and I trip loudly and messily over a snag in the carpet and fall flat on my ass. My head jumps back in reflex and smacks off a pedestal. The clown laughs idly at my misfortune and I rub my temples.

"Need a hand?"

I shake my head. "I think I'll just _stew_ over here for a minute... _What_ is happening to my Karma, for fucks sake..." I add, questioning myself. The next second I've become distracted and the question is forgotten. "Uh," My articulate speech fails me. "Can I get a tow truck err something my car crapped out a mile or two back on the highwaaaaay..."

"Yeah yeah no problem. Lemme jus' make a call." He disappears behind the curtains and I''m alone, ghastly alone, with my depraved thoughts. I'm talking, more muttering, to myself instructions or the like, any old thought I (or it) twist into a conspiracy and chicken-fried steak. My mouth and eyes move rapidly and I twitch and the clown returns, unnoticed by myself in my imagination. I mumble a snatch of song,

"Across the stream with wooden shoes, bells to tell the king the news, a thousand misty riders glide up high up once upon a time. Wondering and dreaming, the words have different meeeaaaaniiiing. Yaaas theeeeey diiid-ah..."

He almost says something, then thinks better of it and shuts his mouth to leave me rambling. My line of sight glides over my surroundings without a moment of peace, he must have been watching intently because I hear no shifting, though there is faint phlegmy breathing.

"Uh." The noise ends my trance and I glance up. "Didja wanta buy some chicken or were you plannin' to spend the day sittin' on y'r ass watchin' the wind blow?"

"Heh, well while that does sound like a fantastic way to spend an afternoooon, it's never a bad time for chicken." I make a show of standing upright, my arms flail in wide circles in an exaggerated attempt to find equilibrium. When the ground no longer melts beneath my feet (an impossibly long time) I find my way to the counter again. "So chicken?"

He studies me with narrowed eyes then bends to retrieve something, opening a cabinet that looses a wave of heat which I feel before I even know what he is doing. When he rises again he holds a melting paper bag out to me. He holds it aloft for a full minute before I say, "And what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?"

He's annoyed with my antics, it's understandable to be completely honest. "Wouldja quit fuckin' around and just take the bag?"

My hands fly up in exaggerated surrender. "Alright man, alright... but _how_?"

"Don't waste my time kid," He warns me.

To extend my arm and reach for the bag is simple enough, but how am I expected to hold on to the damn thing? Wet chunks plop harmlessly on the floor, if I outright grab the thing it would easily slide out of my grasp, which would anger the clown. And there is no reason to make a clown angry. My hands go through a dozen motions of possibilities and I pull a face in twisted concentration.

Finally, my fingers close over a crinkly substance they then rapidly jerk back into my chest. I cradle it awkwardly and ask how long the truck will be. He tells me and I shift forward conspiratorially. "How does one _waste_ time exactly? Time doesn't give two shits what you do with how much of it you get to experience, so is it even possible?"

He leans towards me and patronizes me, "Well, asking stupid questions is one way."

"Haha-" I cough shortly, then rummage through my bag for some loose cash. "Hey, do you take _pesos_ by any chance?"

"Nope."

I shrug. "How 'bout if I pay you in acid?"

He scoffs then double takes rather suddenly. "You yankin' my chain, kid?" Then, "Good acid?"

I over-dramatically motion him to lean forward with my index finger. "What's it look like?" Spaulding's expression shifts from curiosity and confusion to a splitting grin that rips across his grease-painted face. Rivulets of sweat have carved canyons in the thick paste smeared across his face, his grin brings this to my stretched attention.

"Well can I see it?"

I'm already looking for the salt-shaker, "What's your favorite colour, man?"

"Yellow."

I whistle and intone enviously, "Excellent choice. Might I introduce you to my good friend Mr. Sunshine? Have you two met before?" I offer him the pale sheet of LSD and he places it on his tongue without hesitation, only an incredulous chuckle.

"You think the tow truck guy accepts blotters as payment too?"

"I tell you what," He smacks his hands on the register and it pops open with a metallic clink. "I can change up them _pesos_ for some cash, how much ya got?"

"Jesus Christ, man, don't make me count all that out, just give me enough for the truck and the chicken and we'll call it even, okay? Actually wouldja mind throwing in a pack of smokes?" I sit on the floor and begin the task of sifting the money out of hiding. Coins and crumpled notes fall to the ground and when I have it all collected I shove it across the counter in a heap.

"Chicken's on the house, don't worry about it. Ha ha shit," He titters to himself, "It's days like this that make me glad I came to work. How is it that you come to find yourself all the way out here? Drivin' across country all by yourself?"

I grin absently. "Pretty much summed it up there. I been in Mexico for the last three-ish months, I just got back today."

"You gotta place to stay tonight? Or you gonna drive through the night?"

"I dunno, I'm just gonna take whatever comes my way."

"Well if you want to join the family for some dinner 'fore ya go, you're welcome to come," He offers.

My smile brightens at this show of hospitality and I graciously accept. I think it's a horrible turn of events that one can no longer depend solely on the generosity of the good-natured stranger. I'm beginning to lose faith in my own species.

The arrival of the tow truck signals my return to the world, I traipse out the door and hastily pay the big man with the truck. I send him a smile and a dreamy wave as he leaves and immediately begin searching for the cocaine in any area I could reach. Behind the mirrors, under carpeting, seats, glove boxes, and it's not until I'm kneeling on the drivers side of the floor that I spy an bit of plastic held behind the gas pedal with an elastic. I let out a great whoop of joy and in my excitement my shoulder ricochets off the steering wheel. I kick the door open then fill the tank; the raw smell of gasoline pools in my nostrils and for a second or two, it's my whole world. My eyelids flutter dreamily and my body begins to sway. I can see Spaulding through a clear patch of window; he's on the phone and still grinning like a fool.


	2. Last Chance To Evacuate Planet Earth

**Porcupine Tree - Last Chance To Evacuate Planet Earth Before It Is Recycled**

"Nice shark." I whistle in approval after catching sight of the clown's candy-apple red convertible parked out back. The chrome glistens and winks and shines like the sun itself.

Spaulding grins with typical Texas pride. "Hop in kid, but don't ya scuff up my seats, or that coke'll be free."

"The first one's free but after that it's your ass, man." I drive a hard bargain and he is resigned with a laugh. He falls into the car and I watch as he retrieves a mirror and his driver's license. I've never been much for uppers like that but Spaulding sure seems to be right at home cutting powder. It's seems so artificial to me and I idly light a butt while he snorts the mirror clean. "I'm impressed with your work ethic." I quip sarcastically.

"_Aprez-vous_." With a final wave of my hand I rev up the truck and race off down the dusty road. The coke has hit Spaulding hard. He whoops with great pure joy as he races ahead of me. I won't allow his lead to last long. I push the gas as far as I can then let myself drift along with the accumulated speed. A hill suddenly slopes the road and with this extra kick, I fly ahead of the great red shark, laughing giddily. I see him grinning in the mirror, then I see why; he pins a sharp right turn that I've sped past. I decide to quickly remedy my situation by making a large U turn and maintain a high speed. He hasn't slowed down much, which is good, because I use this as an excuse to push 120 on a quiet, winding dirt road. The maker of excellent decisions, I am.

The trees begin to thin out and a large house looms promising ahead. Assuming this is our destination I push the teal shit-mobile ahead of Spauling's gleaming ride and smash the brakes into submission.

We exit our respective vehicles and, through the dust, approach a solitary country home; peeling white panelling, handmade glass windows, some coloured, and the doors too, a neighboring chicken coop and a barn complete with cows thoroughly grazing a fenced pasture. A rare find.

Inside the air is thick and musty, far too close and closed off, this air is old. Spaulding's home is eclectic to the degree of a clichéd Bohemian cafe in the middle of the San Francisco acid wave; patterned scarves hang off of mismatched lamps, the greying, but still flowery carpet (reminds me of Vegas) lies heavily tread and completely worn through in some places. The walls are richly coloured with reds and blues and look as though they would be soft to the touch. An abundance of cluttered, esoteric furniture occupies most of the space, and most things are covered in candles, unlit during the day. It's just a hair away from tacky, but feels freshly unwholesome to me.

I mean to flop onto the nearby sofa but I slip off the edge and land on the carpet, which has started to seep onto my denim clad legs, coating them in living flowers and vines. I haven't been in this house more than two full minutes and I'm already being absorbed.

"You want a beer, kid?" Spaulding slurs slowly from the kitchen, breaking my trance.

"_Yes_, man!" I moan weakly, my voice cracks and I fall back to get a feel for the carpet.

"Daddy!" A bubbly voice pierces the atmosphere and a blonde figure comes rushing through the hallway. Spaulding turns and smiled hugely at the girl as she goes to give him a hug.

"Baby girl, ha ha!" He smiles at his daughter. Hugs On Drugs. They solve all the world's problems.

The woman sees me sprawled in the middle of the floor and waltzes over to meet me. She bends over and beams through a halo of golden hair.

"Hi," She says brightly. "I'm Baby!"

"_I_ am a flower!" Lifetimes pass by as we speak and none of us has a clue. Another Kalpa is ending...

Spaulding scoffs from the kitchen and hands a beer to each of us.

Baby is all smiles. "Whatta they call you back home, sugar pie?"

"Lots of things, but you can call me anything you want."

"Well then Anything-You-Want," Baby giggles, "Can I have some of what your having?"

I shrug. " Are you familiar with Owsley's product?" As I locate the salt shaker my head flops in Spaulding's direction. "You want to get a session going? I've peaked already." He opens his mouth to answer but Baby interrupts, she jumps up excitedly and rushes up the staircase, her beer splashes against the bottle. Fresh golden steam rushes from the bottle's neck and clouds the room with its energy.

"I'll be right back," She yells from upstairs, the rest is inaudible but she continues to talk obscurely. I zone out until I hear her footsteps thundering over the ceiling above me; it was made of shiny, aluminum foil, sunk and molded to Baby's rushed steps. I see her bright panties when she hops back down to my level, she holds a lusciously glazed bong, and sits gracelessly on my midsection. She's forgotten her beer. I'd forgotten my beer too until I realized that she had forgotten hers.

"Mind if I join?"

"Knock yourself out!" I grin and add in a sarcastic deadpan, "Seriously though, you're not allowed."

She beams and giggles so childishly... not innocently though.

She probes with a slender hand inside the chamber, retrieves a bag of leafy grass and packs the first bowl. There is a burst of heat and that initial chemical smell of the lit match burns my nostrils. I wince at the sharp irritation but am distracted when Baby begins coughing deeply, from her chest.

"Shit!" She manages to sputter out and I realize she's forgot the water. I take the bong from her, she gratefully eyes me then falls back to choke. I grin slightly, turn back to Spaulding, he's not even paying attention and his beer hangs forgotten in his loose grasp, leaving me to venture into the kitchen to find a sink. The closest room (thankfully it's the closest or I would have surely gotten lost) opens into a spaciously cozy kitchen. It's calmly disorganized, I like it.

I have successfully completed my mission so now I float back to dead carpets and wasted people. Baby lies still on the floor, her eyes closed tightly, she's stopped coughing but looks green. Dry bong hits are terrible. Mine is more manageable. "These leaves have a kick to 'em." I mumble to myself and finish the dregs of my beer.

Baby clears her throat roughly. "Ugh." She shakes her head of confusion and disillusion. "Never again."

I gesture to Spaulding, he is staring blankly, gone. "Ya figure I should tuck the old man in or something?" I venture jokingly.

"Ha..." Her laugh is genuine, but exhausted. "Wha's you're name again?"

"Cassandra. Everyone calls me Cassady, though."

Her voice is bubbling with sweetness. "Lucky, you've got such a pretty name! Wanna know what I'm stuck with?" She pulls a face, "_Vera_ Ellen. Makes me sound like an old lesbian, and that's only half true."

Blatant sexuality has no place in an acid trip. In another place, we would be having an entirely different conversation. "I think it's a sweet name, it even _sounds_ pink and sugary."

"Well thanks. What brings y'all the way out here?" I told her what I'd told Spaulding before.

Baby takes another hit. "Where're you off to next? You should bring your friends down here, I'd love to meet 'em!"

"Probably going to Denver for a while, say hi to some friends... then maybe fly to Amsterdam and stay with my cousin Jan for a while... I've always wanted to go back there..." I trail off for a moment, "The last time I went was six years ago and I have never been able to find better quality grass anywhere. The _cannabis _they grow there is _phenomenal_. The coffee houses compete for customers with their strains, competition breeds quality; that's the philosophy." She nods and hands me the empty bowl, which I fill now to the brim.

The cream coloured teevee set flickers to life in the corner, _The Munsters_ opening theme plays. I swear someone else is watching the same thing upstairs, the faint doppelganger sound drifts down the staircase. I close my eyes and drift into a state of half-consciousness. I hear Baby sucking the bubbles from the bong. I rise to take a few hits and fall back to the floor, my state of mind is unchanged.

Spaulding's slow voice. "Baby go get Mama and tell her we got a guest."

"She's out today, said she's shopping." Spaulding acknowledges this with a quiet grunt.

He rubs his eyes, this is the most he's spoken for the better part of an hour. "How's that hitting you, man?"

He laughs humorlessly and shakes his head. "No talking."

Baby has resorted to watching the blanket programming on teevee and I'm tempted to join her in observing the arbitrary program, so I light a butt and watch the smoke ricochet off the ceiling instead. My mind wanders away from the flat noise coming from the program and becomes quiet. My breathing gains rhythm. I hear heavy footsteps falling slowly down the stairs. Some unspoken conversation seems to have taken place, I ignore it and breathe.

Baby mumbles lazily from the couch, "Ah fuck off Otis, she's cool."

"Yeah, I'm sure." Otis retorts. He sniffs once and sits despondent next to Baby. He kicks me lightly. I see him out of my peripheral but stay comfortable on the floor. His ghostly hair is distractingly wispy.

"Hey, man, do something about that clown will ya? He's starting to freak me out," I tell him. Spaulding is slouched low in the armchair, his eyes were glazed over in a thousand-mile-stare.

"Why? What'd you do to him?" The White Man sounds vaguely amused.

Spaulding mumbles something regarding "teacup puppies".

"I did nothing, _he_ just can't handle his acid." He mutters some incoherency from the midst of his trance. I make a face and ask seriously, "What's that? I don't understand, why are you speaking in Arabic?" I grin and wink at the two on the couch as soon as his ramblings become more hysterical. I laugh to myself through a plume of smoke, "Heh. See? It's too easy."

My head rests on my forearm, my leg is perched on the other and my foot jingles in the air to an unknown beat. Baby is dozing off, arm hanging limply off the side of the upholstery; Otis stands fluidly and gives me another light prodding, "C'mon." I rush through time and space as I rise lazily from my resting place to follow him.


	3. New Age

**The Velvet Underground - New Age**

"So... Otis," I say in my ruined voice through a fresh puff of smoke, borne from each word. "Are you a carbon based life form, a planetary citizen? A celestial terrestrial commuter?"

"Celestial, huh? How d'ya figure, mama?"

And I can't help but snigger, as I reminisce over upper-fueled, all night conversations. The long hours had seemed to shrink with every word spoken in the atmosphere of grass and overdue madness. Most nights we wouldn't stop talking until dawn.

"Everything is made of stardust." I say simply, recalling Dean ranting about this several years prior. He had rambled for hours, literally hours, on and on about the mother supernova that rained its cosmic dust and elemental essence on the fresh universe, giving it the tools for life. I will not let myself get sucked into yet another low-voiced, serious staring talk of philosophy and truth and endless questions. I lack the energy for such things now.

"What's yr name, then?"

"Anything you want it to be." He chuckles and produces a matchbook and a butt.

I stare at the immature abstracts painted on the walls and find myself drawn into an amoeba-like green profile, it was made to be talking, saying "Hope you like what you see!" The word bubble grows from the mouth of the green face, then disappears and regrows endlessly.

"Did you draw all these, man?"

Otis shrugs absently. "Uh, most of 'em. It's hard to say." While donning a plaid shirt, he sits on the yellowing bed, it creaks in protest to the sudden weight. I lean on a desk, the bag still slung around my neck; I finger the clasp and let my mind wander to its dark, beat sanctuary. It's a long time before Otis speaks. He's nearly finished the cigarette.

"Y'into art?"

This breaks my reverie beyond repair or retrieval and I start at him. "Am I into _art_?" Grinning madly, "Everything is art. Art is life itself, it is a true force, as much as sound or wind or water. Its is beauty and brilliance and madness incarnate. It's everywhere and everything and nothing at once, it can't be questioned, it couldn't be, it is, it simply _is_! It's pure and alive, it breathes and moves even if you can't see it do so. It is flawed and _therefore_ perfected in its imperfection. But so is everything else, so I guess it's nothing special." Breathing heavier now. It can't be helped, I dig all aspects of life to the point of insanity. As tired and worn out a soul as I seem to be, that's all I have the energy left to do, dig life. Otis laughs and crushes the butt in an empty cup.

"Do you just draw, or d'ya do anything else in the artistic frame of mind?"

He pauses before answering. "None of this," He gestures to the walls, "is my _real_ work, this is kids shit, playtime. I'm more of a, uh sculptor. I deal in reality, not in abstracts." I nod slowly, knowingly. "It's more satisfying that way."

"What, making something from something or making something from nothing?"

"Turning something dated into something new and unexpected... it's better than starting from scratch, you can fix design flaws, create a hybrid." He shrugs. "Something like that."

I was nodding into a trance. "Yes, man, I dig that." I mutter. In the midst of this acid buzz a strange languid sense overtakes my mind. I could use a stick of tea.

I open and probe through the bag, searching determinedly, and retrieve a joint and a box of matches that reads "Cafe A Go Go – Venice Beach". The joint dangles teasingly on my lip as I struggle valiantly to light a match. Each time I succeeded I promptly drop it in shock at the living flame. It speaks to me, tells me perversely to end its existence. Otis catches my dilemma and stands up to help. He swiftly lights a single match and offers the flame. I have not noticed how close he is now, although this could not bother me in the dwindling acid frenzy.

I tested him, "So, you wanna show me some of your _real_ work?" He is obviously passionate about art, his face lights up like it's Christmas morning, although he tries not to show it by simply nodding and gesturing towards a set of curtains that act as a partition. We pass through the curtains into another drawing-covered room, the sunset beams in through the lone window and illuminates dust particles dancing in the air. A makeshift curtain hangs in a corner, it sticks out at odd angles because it's hiding some construct from sight. I seat myself noiselessly on a wooden chair in the middle of the room and wait for the unveiling.

"You ready, mama?" He doesn't wait for an answer and rips back the curtain. Seated on a pedestal is the figure of a boy with grayish skin that gradually melts into a chrome blue fish's tail. The boy's glasses are askew, giving a slightly comical tilt to the macabre piece. His glassy eyes are confused and lost.

I 'hmm' in thought, quietly observing the boy's head as it frantically searches for something, flying from side to side until its movements become blurred and unclear. His glasses hang off the bridge of his crooked nose and his lips move soundlessly, spittle flies from his mouth and his eyes search desperately. For what and what purpose? My head tilts in thought as I watch the scene unfold before my waking eyes. When the statue's movements end, I stand to better see the strange look in his eyes. Otis watches me with a critical eye as I approach the pedestal to judge his work, my feet shuffle softly against the wooden slats.

"Why is he so confused?" I wonder aloud. "What could he be so desperate to find... unless _he_ is lost... in himself, in his mind. He doesn't know his own soul, and he is alone in the dark ocean of mind..." No... the gears of my mind clatter in scattered thought. One that stares into the abyss finds that the abyss stares back into ones own soul. Mirroring ones fears... what one fears most of all is ones secret desires, or so Dean said... The weight of this revelation hangs heavy in the air.

"_Man_..."

Shaking my head slowly, I turn back to face my companion who stands with his arms crossed. I say nothing, then sit cross-legged like a Bodhisattva on the floor, watching the statue with great wondering eyes.

"I've witnessed death before." I say after a moment, quite calmly. The room's energy becomes cloudy and hostile but I keep talking. "The third time Carlo, Dean, Camille and I made across to the east..." I pause to cough. "We were on our way to Chicago by this big, lonely stretch of highway when we came across a hitchhiker. He was a ragged old bum but he thanked us for picking him up and offered his only dollar to us for gas. We immediately took a liking to him, he talked and talked of his life in the _servitude _of the Navy, of his family way back in Virginia. Him, his wife Deborah, Daniel and Emily, twins he said, and Genevieve, the dog, lived on a ranch in the countryside. Every Sunday they would go out to town for the church service and afterwards for ice cream.

"He spoke so affectionately of his life and I wondered with all my being _how_ he could have fallen so far... How does one become so out of touch with those they love? He never said why, but all the same he never stopped talking, we could hardly get a word in edgewise. When we arrived in Chicago, Dean suggested that we all get a drink... There was no reply from the back seat. We thought he had fallen asleep some miles back because he had become quieter and quieter until he suddenly ceased his reminiscing. We had welcomed the silence to chat about our thoughts and plans for the cool Chicago evening, go see the last dregs of the once live jazz joints...

"But still no answer from our passenger. So I turn back in my seat to make some sense of the matter, and he's sitting with his hands folded gently in his lap and his head bumping softly against the headrest behind him. His eyes were closed and he had a look of serenity I will never forget in all my waking moments. I couldn't look away, Carlo said he was dead. He had given us his soul, then passed without a sound, with a clean conscience, surrounded by new friends, at peace. And I felt envious, in an _odd_ sense, that he could be so at peace now, I began hoping that I would meet my end in a similar fashion..." I speak lightly in a soft voice.

"So we buried our friend in the dirt just outside of Chicago that night, in a community park. I still think about it sometimes, such a solemn night... We slept quietly in the car and passed straight through the Chicago traffic the next morning, and all we could talk about was the lingering feeling of peace he had left in our souls. We didn't even know his name, but we loved him the same. From then on he would be our brother, a fellow road soul and we always spoke of him as such..." I wait.

"Anyway, I was jus' thinking..." Gesturing towards the statue. "_He_ didn't die so peacefully, did he?" The floor creaks. The negative energy is palpable. I breathe lightly and absently scratch my chin as I wait for the silence to be broken, a response to be made. "There's no need to be afraid."

"_You're_ the one who's got something to be afraid of, mama!" Otis jumps to my back with a knife held fast to my throat. I barely acknowledge this.

My face is placid and serene, a soft smile plays upon my lips. "And what do I have to be afraid of, hmm? _Enlighten_ me." His free hand is clammy under my chin and his head moves to my shoulder.

He laughs and waves the gleaming knife in my face. "_What_ you have to be afraid of is all around you! I might just skin you alive with this here blade, and you wont even _start_ dying until I reach your waist." I blink slowly, unmoved and he points over my head to fish-boy. "I'm gonna get the creative juices flowin' and make you my next project." He moves slowly in front of me and sits on his heels, languishing in my apparent discomfort. His pale lips part in a sneering grin and he touches my nose mockingly. My own smile broadens.

"Good." Otis blinks twice in rapid succession, his grin falters. "If all my existence amounts to is creative fodder, that's fine with me. I dig that." I say simply.

He sneers cruelly, "Bitch, you're going to _die_ today, doesn't that bother you? Doesn't that _unsettle _your _spirit_?"

"What does it look like from your end?" He grows very still and I take this as a cue to begin _musing_. If this is to be my final moment, then I would go out like I'd always knew I would: imparting my thoughts on the world.

"Death and life are _equally_ significant, I can't stress that enough. And the beauty of our unique carbon based, oxygen dependant circumstance is that it doesn't matter anyway! Everything that ever lived is dead, and everything that ever will live is gonna die, end of fucking story. Death is nothing to fear, you might as well fear each breath you take, as each one brings you closer to that final moment when the spark will leave your eyes just as easily as it came." I say this hurriedly, in a single breath, wondering if the madness shines in my eyes, as it used to in my Red Devil phase. The rush of the spoken word envelopes my tired soul and takes it to a familiar place of abstract notions and wild glances, eyes not really taking in anything physical, but admiring instead motifs and attached stigma. This is a place where I feel truly at peace with the world. "And why the fuck would death _unsettle_ my spirit? Life doesn't, nothing else does, what makes death so special? Because it's a _mystery_? Well that's a bullshit reason, _everything_ is a mystery, who _actually_ knows what the fuck's going on? No-one. We have no more knowledge about why we die then why we live in the first fucking place, and that doesn't seem to bother anybody!"

But the presence of the LSD is beginning to ebb out of my consciousness and without a single thought I locate the salt-shaker. Deftly unscrewing the cap and fishing out the pale yellow sheets takes most of my concentration. I go to place them on my tongue and chew them up but stop to look closely at them. This is the Sunshine acid...

"Here," I separate two blotters and offer one without delay. Otis has not moved or spoken yet, he only stares blankly and blatantly puzzled. I smile warmly and say emphatically. "_Relax, _man. Don't be so paranoid." He laughs as if he doesn't know what else to do, but he extends his hand for the acid and places it in his mouth then returns his knife to its holster on his leg. I hadn't noticed it before.


	4. It Takes A Lot To Laugh

_in my opinion, the greatest description of anything comes from Naked Lunch, "Vulture wings husk in the dry air", has any aspect of life on Earth even been so keenly described? it reminds me of the "cellar door" scene in donnie darko, but im rambling, ignore me_

_there will be (leading up to) sex in this chapter and the next one too, if you are offended by such material then why are you still reading this?_

**Bob Dylan - It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Train To Cry**

The Texas sun rises burning yellow above the dry landscape; a harmony of bugs sharply buzzing and the sound of wind rolls through the sparse grass. I've grown attached to sleeping outside over the years; lulled to sleep by calm winds and soft chirping of local fauna, only to be woken from a peaceful rest by the more peaceful still sound of birds calling to each other and taking wing, of wind's whimpers pulsating around each individual tree and leaf and grain of sand.

This whisper of Nature wakes me again this morning. Without looking, but feeling, I gradually regain my self-awareness and rational mind (to be replaced by the Zen-nothing mindset after my morning meditation), I languidly smell the fresh breeze and sit up.

I hear my heartbeat and breath intertwine like climbing vines; my clothes stretch and strain every time I inhale.

Sitting now, in the back of my truck, the metal beginning to warm my thighs in the high sun, I sit in the lotus-position and take several gulps of sweet air, find my third eye, then begin counting backwards from one hundred with my heartbeat acting as a metronome.

_Inhale...One hundred... Exhale_

_Inhale...Ninety-nine... Exhale_

_Inhale...Ninety-eight... Exhale_

When I count _eighty-six_, I become fully aware of the very human presence lying next to me.

_Sixty-five... _Their breathing is deep, still sleeping.

_Thirty-two..._ The someone stirs and the sound of groaning metal follows closely.

"What time is it?" A male voice, heavy with sleep, Otis'.

Eyes still closed I reply softly, "I don't know", which to any Zen individual means "I don't care".

_Inhale...Thirty-one... Exhale_

_Inhale...Thirty... Exhale_

_Inhale...Twenty-nine... Exhale_

"What happened last night, huh?"

"I don't know."

_Inhale...Twenty-eight... Exhale_

_Inhale...Twenty-seven... Exhale_

_Inhale...Twenty-six... Exhale_

"You don't know much do ya?"

"I know that it's difficult to meditate while someone talks to you. Or around you. Whatever it is that you're doing." And now I feel too agitated to wilfully continue my self-exploration. My eyes open into the harsh sunlight, made brighter by the reflective metal winking at me. I squint at Otis who looks up at me from his back with his arms nestled beneath his head. His plaid shirt is balled up next to him. "I also know about the corpses in the cellar," I state calmly.

_"This'll end badly, trust me, I'm a doctur..." I slur and forget my train of thought. I've been in one headspace most of the night, I can't think of anything else and when I try to I lose any other thoughts like paperclips in a cluttered desk. What? I'm aware of the risk yet I jump on his back without delay and yell "I'm a cape! Awaaaay!"He is wobbly on his feet and we go crashing into a wall; I swear and dust falls from the ceiling. When we recover from the initial shock and drunken tittering I give him a motivational kick. "Hyaah! Hyah!"_

He nods slowly. "And the verdict is?"

"There isn't one."

He laughs in a vaguely derisive manner, "Oh yeah, sure. No moral outrage, not even a tiny little bit? No opinion at all? Humour me." He adds with a sly grin.

I take several deep breaths and uncross my legs before I answer him. "I don't mean to disappoint, but no. No concept of agree or disagree, not much else to say... I suppose I have no opinion on the matter because I have no right to judge. And you have no right to judge me for not judging you. So there." A rather childish afterthought, I muse lightly as I fire up a butt. I burn my hand.

_Otis manages to stumble in the direction of the basement stairs and we lean against a wall to regain balance. "Okay..." He pants, "I'ma gonna run down these stairs, and you're gonna hold on and try not to die."_

_"Try being the operative word." I giggle._

_"You ready mama?"_

Otis shrugs once. "That works too. Long as you don't get the wrath of the lord up my ass." He motions for the pack. My speech becomes more animated at the mention of god. Carlo tells me that I can "disprove your god in five minutes or less".

"The lord isn't _wrathful_, okay well maybe he is but if so then he doesn't deserve to be worshipped for being an asshole and a flat-out bully with a "Believe or die!" mentality. If one is motivated by _fear_ then one's priorities are _fucked_."

_"Annnnn, GO!" I shriek into the void and he takes off like a shot, perhaps stumbling at first. It takes him a second before he begins to sprint but soon I feel air rushing by and a sudden drop in my stomach as we fly down the stairs into the foreboding cellar._

"Hn, don't hate fear mama, fear is your best friend, the one and only survival instinct!" He takes a long drag on the cigarette and says with derision, " Hate _god_ for being a judgemental prick."

"Okay assuming he is there, _why_ should he judge? Our lives are trivial and he is (supposedly) omnipotent, why would he care what we do? What _possible_ motive could he have for judging our every move? It's all bullshit if you me." I say with a flourish and a wave and a fresh puff accenting every word.

"Well yeah, but most people are either stupid or sheep. They'll believe anything they're told if it makes them feel better. Truth doesn't have the same significance it used to, as far as _wanting_to know the truth, heh, that's an idea that's dead and gone, lady," He rebukes with sage wisdom.

I laugh ruefully. "You don't have to tell me that, I've seen enough of it to last me a lifetime and a half. When I told my mom I was leaving to drive across the country with my friends, and this is exactly what I damn told her too! I said, Mommy, I'm suffocating here and if I stay another minute my head's gonna explode. If you try to make me stay I'll die here and you can keep that on your conscience. But I'm leaving today and I want you to know that I love you but I need time to miss you and know myself and the world. And ya know what she says to me? 'But _w__hy?'_With this look of like, sad idiocy on her face, and I turn and walk to the car and haven't been home since."

Otis nods slowly for a while. "Mommy?"

"Yeah, I lived in suburbia until I was nineteen. They were Mommy and Daddy to me."

He enjoys a short laugh at my expense, I wait until he stops and asks me with a lurid wiggle of his eyebrow, "You gonna call _me_ daddy?"

Placidly grinning. "Ask me again later." He cackles madly. "What did you call your parents?"

"Dead." He says without feeling.

"How?"

"I killed 'em."

"Jesus." After some contemplation, "You're fucking nuts!"

"Yeah, these are the things that kept me out of the good schools." He says and this triggers a new wave of laughter.

"You have dimples." I remark lightly. I hesitate to ask him, but my fleeting cowardice subsides. "Where're you from, then?"

He lets a great sigh of breath go before he answers. "New Orleans." His words mesh together so it comes out _Nuorleens_. "It's a shame really, I left before I started to appreciate the music scene. And I dig what you say about hitchhiking, I did some myself back in the day." He scratches his belly in absent contentment.

"Hm, yeah before every hitcher was a psychotic murderer I guess? Well," I laugh as I catch my own wording. "You're the walking stereotype, huh?"

"I'm the shitkicking, hitchhiking murderer with a cowboy hat." He says, calmly grinning. I'm relieved that he can take a joke.

Our snickering dies down after a few draws and he asks me, "So have you been sacrificing attention and brain cells on the political game? I'm just wondering ya know, for interest's sake..." I'm coughing on a lungful of smoke.

"Only enough that I'm not politically retarded, I guess."

"Left or right?"

"That's a tougher question." I viciously clear my throat and thoughtfully intone, "Hrrm... Same as my g-spot: a little to the left."

A surreptitious smirk edges on his face. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Anyway, no politics is good politics, and juxtaposed with _our _society, I'd much prefer anarchy."

"Anything's an improvement to these dumbfucks we got in the White house."

"America is a disappointment to the world."

"Ah, but ya know that it's the idiots that rule the world now," He intones wisely.

"They always have, man. The public wants to be represented by one of their own brood. The obvious problem being that they are all stupid, almost to the point of debilitation."

He nods . "_Fuck _Nixon."

"Fuck Nixon, Fuck the DEA, and most of all Fuck this whole American attitude of self-righteous know-it-allism. Use cheap examples and quote mining and self-fulfilling prophecies and then tell us _we're _wrong. It's fucking _ridiculous._" I'm letting my anger at the established order get the best of me. I flick the butt as far away from me as I can and stand up and stretch, ending our banter. My cotton shirt rides above my bellybutton and a wistful yawn escape me as blood flows to all the nooks in my body. "Wanna go find some food?" I say as my stomach rumbles and he acquiesces. "Acid hangover wants coffee." I say shortly, and he slides off of the truck and we walk up to the house.

_"That we are the gods of ourselves! Our eyes opened to the void and can see the no-smell of death!" I cough and sip more rum. I drink the amber fire through a white straw. We drink straight from the bottle. All is revealed and you can see what is on the end of every fork. Naked Lunch._

Vulture wings husk in the dry air and my mind draws a blank. The sandy terrain softens our footsteps and we walk with no reason to quicken our pace and soon the conversation begins again.

He continues, "...So the only other question is where the world goes from being governed and overrun by mediocrity."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that money equates to power, and intelligence is _not _a prerequisite to wealth."

"Oh, I see your point but I have four questions pertaining to said point. Yeah? And? So? What? All the idiots in the world, combined in one immeasurably mediocre force could never amount to the worth of a true intellectual. True stupidity is laziness of the mind." I pause in thought, I'm not sure if that made sense, but when I'm agitated like this I tend to string thoughts together. "A million zeroes don't add up to one I guess is the idea that I am trying to convey."

"Fair enough, but that still leaves us in the very unfortunate position of having to _deal _with their bullshit." He raises a valid point.

"I suppose, but as long as you _know _that you have been fucked out of your freedom you are thusly free to float around the system as you see fit."

"Ha, ever the optimist, I see."

We reach the shade of the porch, there is an immediate difference in my body temperature. I yawn comfortably as my eyes adjust to the dim house. It's still quiet, it's only 9:30 I realize when I see the grandfather clock standing by the stairs. A yawn escapes me, even though I'm not feeling tired. The ceiling creaks occasionally but other than that the house is still.

"Kitchen's here." He goes to the coffee pot and I'm bored so I light some candles and play with the warm wax, rolling it into a ball between my fingers, flattening it and repeating until it hardens completely. I then proceed to throw them lightheartedly into Otis' wispy hair. I'm not entirely sure if he even notices, or if he's only humoring me. Or maybe it's pissing him off. In any case he makes no visible reaction, and my little wax pellets ricochet away, they can't hold in his hair. One lands on his plaid-clad shoulder.

My hands falter every time I catch his movement, I think he is about to turn around, this animated paranoia hinders my reflexes so when he does turn around to face me one of the pellets is already flying directly at his forehead. I play off this faux pas by snorting and resting nonchalantly with my knuckles propping up my chin. He stops for a second, shakes his head with a laugh and gives me a look.

I'm grinning. "What?"

He shrugs overtly. "Nothing."

"What nothing?" I counter.

"Very funny."

"Well what's the deal with airline food-" Otis pushes me, a laid-back grin plastered on his face, I lose my balance and grind my hip into the edge of the counter and send a well-timed kick in his direction. "How dare you push me like a common whore! I'm twice the entertainment at half the price!"

"Oh yeah? What can you do that they don't?" He's egging on my dehydrated mechanical tirade.

"Think out loud. Just keep the acid flowing."

"It's your acid anyway." He didn't hear that the way I meant, I let it drop. I lick my lips, my tongue is uncomfortably dry and does nothing to soothe, so I cross, unthinking, to the sink and twist the cold water on full blast. I'm literally parched, I lean over the counter and stick my mouth under the faucet, pulling my hair away from the spray; the water is tangy but refreshing and I take greedy gulps.

"Ya know what _I_ think?" He doesn't wait to tell me, and has sneaked up behind me, pinning me against the counter with his hips. "I think I could say something stupid and juvenile about what _else_ you can do, but I think we're past that." He tugs my hair and heat rushes through my midsection and my spine straightens against his wiry frame. A self-satisfied grin creeps on my face as I feel a droplet of water inching down my chin. If I didn't know any better I'd say he wants to lick it off, the way his eyes are boring into me. Rushing water is the soundtrack to the sexual tension.

"You might be right. So let's make a mutual decision." I patronize him as the dribble of water progresses down my throat, cooling my skin from the sudden heat. His hand is entangled in my hair and forcing my head back against his shoulder while I feel him half-hard on the back of my leg. This closely packed contact drives me to grind myself on him, arching my back, he tenses but leans into the motion. Another hand falls to my belt line, begins working the buckle, not to undo it just to tease. My breath deepens when he inches his fingers underneath the coarse fabric of my jeans to feel my skin. I reach behind me to grip his hips for balance.

"Forget the coffee, let's go upstairs. Unless there's mutilated corpses in your room or something," I joke.

He laughs huskily and digs further down my pants. "You mean they can't join in? Don't worry, I cleaned them up."

I wrinkle my nose in mock thought; my hands drift south and rub his erection through his pants. "Mm, no not today I'm afraid." He laughs once more and deliberately leans over my shoulder to lick away the wet bead from my collarbone.


	5. Marigold

_there will be sex in this chapter, if you are offended by such material then i recommend getting laid first, then coming back and reading this chapter. this is my first, moderately well-written lemon so i hope you're all satisfied ;) with my first attempt. not to fear, there will be more to come ;)_

_im on a roll._

_also, for those of you who actually go out of your way to listen to the music i mention, you can find all of it at g r o o v e s h a r k .com (fucking censors making my life hard)_

_enjoy dearies_

_also if anyone gets the pancake reference then i will be highly impressed and thrilled._

**Nirvana - Marigold**

Unfortunately for my libido, my roaring stomach wins the internal fight to the death. "Otis." I plead as he sucks on my neck. "I'm starving."

He nips at the skin and patronizes me, he can hear the disgruntled cries of my belly too. "No worries, I got something to fill you right up." The light on the coffee machine has flickered off, the atmosphere, although clouded with sexual tension, fills with the rich aroma of hot coffee. Between that, and my sudden overwhelming desire for pancakes I'm subject to force my way to the fridge, while fucking, if that's what I have to do. I make feeble attempts at removing his roaming hands from my pants and he lets a long sigh over the base of my neck. "You want me to make you pancakes?" He says into my skin, his thumbs hanging from my belt loops.

I'm completely caught off guard. "Um... yes? How did you know that?" I have to ask.

He strides to a cupboard after extracting himself from my pants. "Know what?" I hoist myself up and sit on a counter, giving myself a closer look at the contents of the cabinets while I search tirelessly for a coffee mug.

"That I wanted pancakes." He's sticking his entire upper body inside the cream coloured fridge. Directly behind my head I find a powder blue mug with a fair number of chips on the rim, so I pounce from the counter and fill the vessel with steaming coffee.

He shrugs and dumps pancake mix and milk into a bowl. "Lucky for you then, it's the only thing I know how to make," He smashes one egg completely, swears and throws the mangled yellow and white chunks at the wall, the other two he manages not to destroy. "Without completely fucking up." The country stove burner is set on high, Otis slops a small brick of butter onto the pan to melt.

He stops for a second, shoots me an aggravated glance, smirking, one hand falling uselessly to his side and the other deliberately pointing a spatula at me. "_You_ are gonna owe me one, mama." He bluntly gropes his erection, "Cause this is waiting for ya."

I grin condescendingly. "Tomorrow I'll make _you_ pancakes then." He senses that he is in danger of laughing and losing his mask of control because the corner of his mouth twitches upwards as he appraises me with cynical eyes. I don't break the stare, and raise an eyebrow as a challenge. He turns away first, to consult the stove top. Success.

My grin dissipates soon as the hot coil in my abdomen tightens further, I lean forward in the direction of the pan, smothered with sizzling yellow. "How goes it?"

His eyes dart conspiratorially over his shoulder and adjusts his stance as he shapes the blob of pancake. "Don't watch me work!" He exclaims indignantly.

I raise my eyebrows and childishly try to see his work anyway. "Why so secretive there?"

Laughing cryptically. "Oh you'll find out," He continues his ministrations, they look exaggerated and unnecessary but are effective insofar as I have no idea what he is doing. I silently take measured sips of the scalding drink and rock childishly on my heels.

A myriad of time later Otis flicks the burner off and slides the creation off of its teflon birthplace.

He presents me with a plate, on that plate is a large, golden-brown phallus. I look alternately at it and Otis.

His dimpled smirk is teasing. "Like what you see?"

"It looks delicious."

"It's actual size."

"I look forward to finding out."

"Put it in your mouth." He hands me syrup. "Get it wet." The smirk is triumphant.

I hold the pancake up to my mouth and hesitate, "I sure hope no one walks in right now." I say loudly.

Otis looks at me speculatively. "What, you think anybody gives a shit?"

I shrug and take a prolonged bite without breaking the intense eye contact that has been established. "Just making sure." I lick my lips obscenely slow for no other reason other than to pander to our mutual sexual frustration. "Mm... It's so light and fluffy brown."

"It's the finest in the town." I'm very nearly startled by the reference. I nod in approval, half mocking and Otis laughs dryly. "Impressed right? I know."

"Extremely," I say through a mouthful, dropping the (Apostrophe) pancake and raise my hand, he promptly claps a hand to mine with a sharp, fleshy crack. "Well played."

Otis watches me eat as deliberately suggestive as possible. A droplet of syrup runs down my hand to my wrist where my tongue swipes it clean. I look up at Otis, "You want a piece? Here," Offering him some. "Have some balls." His smirk briefly turns into a scoff but he relents and stuffs the bit of pancake into his mouth and chews gratefully.

But soon the food is gone and thick silence grows. I idly lick my fingers clean and soon grow impatient with myself for finding that I am unable to make the first move. I meet his gaze, open my mouth to speak but the words evaporate from my tongue and my mouth is left hanging open dumbly. I try to convey an image between our locked eyes; passionate and ridiculous. My teeth click together and form a half-smile.

"What?" He smirks wider.

"Any suggestions for the next few hours, Otis?"

Lo and behold the sexual tension, solidifying the air in the kitchen until it turns to slush, and feeding off our stare. My muscles disobey and outright ignore my brain's orders, _get up, stand, stand, stand_, I am left helpless to the mercy of my body. I light another cigarette and draw deeply. Otis doesn't take one, watching me intently as I suck back the smoke.

"Can I watch you suck on that upstairs? If we fuck on the kitchen table people might stare."

"But you don't care though, right?" Finally my body rises follows him up the staircase. My gaze is fixed ahead of me, for Otis I can't say the same because I refuse to glance at him. He may have noticed how anchored my eyes are. Our even footsteps seem to be the only sound, the creaking of floorboards, the squeal of the door and the following echo of said squeal as the door is shut behind us.

The cigarette has nearly been sucked dry by this point due to the ever-rising tension grating on my nerves. Otis lifts the dying thing from my fingers, draws deeply and crushes the butt on the wall. Our eyes meet for an inordinate amount of time before a miraculous break in the tension occurs.

I am fully expecting a wet patch to appear on the seam of my jeans, I can feel the heat of his hand over my cunt, applying pressure, adamantly stroking me through my pants. Our mouths open together, gaping, gasping and desperate we fling our bodies in the direction of the springy bed. His shirt is off and thrown coldly to the floor, forgotten in the heat of the moment; my nails graze his exposed chest, one claws over a nipple that I take full advantage of, twisting and pulling. His chest is lean and faintly muscled, pale like the rest of him but dusted with fine hair.

A vague smile is plastered to my face as I feel his weight looming over me; I feel like the pressure could overshadow the sun, and stop me from breathing. Our lips meet in a crushing embrace, almost too rough to feel good. Almost. My shirt is sent flying , I break the kiss for only a second and he simultaneously rips the belt from my jeans and tugs the zipper down.

A gravelly chuckle. "No panties, huh?"

"_Panties_ are for little girls. Am I a little girl Otis?" I say, pushing him, my eyes narrow teasingly.

His smile turns feral. "No you're not, mama. And that's what I like about you."

Sheets are ruffled, panting is heavy; his mouth closes over my nipple, caressing and flicking the sensitive nub between his teeth.

I hook my thumbs in his belt loops and viciously yank his hips closer to mine, he responds with a ragged intake of breath, I wrap my legs around him for lack of more satisfying contact but he pushes them aside to free them completely from my jeans. I roll his nipples between my fingers and roil in anticipation.

He seems to enjoy the added stimulation and struggles to one-handedly undo his belt, while the other moves possessively to my throat, the pad of his thumb is rough, my breath hitches, ragged.

"You ready, mama?" He asks, panting from above me. Since I've met him I've noticed his patronizing smirk rarely leaves his face, but now is one of those times where it has been replaced by a look of hunger through heavily-lidded eyes.

I nod up at him. "Emphatically yes." A shadow of a grin passes his face and he smoothly enters me, picking up the rhythm immediately. My eyes drift halfway shut and my body tenses pleasantly. A contented sigh leaves my throat and I feel his cock pulse inside of me. The heavy-breathing tension seems to have dissipated into a new kind of tension; not one of neediness or excitement, but one of raw sensation.

With my thighs adorning his waist, he sits on his knees giving him the deepest angle possible; I can't even find the energy to prop myself up on my elbows, it's all I can do not to just lie there, drowning. He pumps harder, my breasts bounce, our sighs mingle. Neither of us speaks, I've always believed that sex is no time for conversation, we simply exist in our communal passion and silence. The material of his jeans has softened with wear and tear over the years, I feel it rubbing the small of my back red and raw.

Breathing intensifies and turns to deep sighing, I'm not paying attention to my roaming hands, as they make several detours, caress his torso, and the line of hair leading below his bellybutton. Our skin is becoming slick with sweat.

He pulls me further down on his cock and anchors himself on my hips, pushing faster. The air in my lungs is forced out, leaving my breathing shallow and uneven, my moaning is grows more pronounced and rough. I feel every slick thrust, every heavy intake of breath, every second filled with sensation and exaltation.

He guides my hips and I'm practically limp on the bed, my hair waves around my head, and I'm gone. My breathy moans gain substance as his pace quickens. My hands fly to his shoulders, he gnaws at the pulse in my wrist, I leave angry red crescents in his skin. Without warning on my part, my back arches with a sharp intake of breath and I grasp furiously at his torso, aching to release the rising tension.

My mouth opens to a wide, ecstatic O as the pressure builds and finally encourages a low gasp out of hiding. A lazy smile occupies my face and my eyes drift shut.

Otis lightly slaps my cheek. "Wake up, mama, we're not done yet." A feeling of lethargy overcomes me, then a coating of giddiness.

"I'm not asleep..." I say stupidly. My thumb nail scratches my lip and I grin. I'm happily oblivious to the implications of his frenzied thrusting, but I can feel him, and the rough denim, closing in. My sight drifts upwards with no intention and takes in the way the corners of his mouth twitch, the voracious glint hidden in the pupil of his blue eyes.

A final, ragged breath signals release and he finishes on my thigh, I'm happy to say there will be no little anybody's running around. He's gripping my hips tightly, not quite down from the short high, breath is racing on both our accounts and he collapses, satisfied, next to me. His jeans never made it past his knees. I wipe the sticky cum off me in a single swipe. His mouth hangs open without intention as he sags into the mattress, spent for the moment.

I lie with my legs carelessly draped over his, thinking of nothing, feeling silly and light hearted. His fingers feel my skin, eyes closed.

I exhale once and drape my hand over my chest. "Your cock is _snow_ white. You know that?"

He grins lazily. "No. This is the first I'm hearing of it."

"Then you should thank me for informing you."

"You have my deepest gratitude. Until you pointed it out I was oblivious."

"As long as you admit it." My own smile is low-key. As we catch our breath and ride the afterglow of the mutual climax the silence grows comfortably. My mind drifts away where I can't consciously follow.

"What d'you think makes a person who they are?" His question catches me by surprise and I have to collect my thoughts. _Anything really, how you love a person, how you do your job, your faith or lack thereof, your bias, the friends you have, your mistakes, your fears, your triumphs, your ideas, your view of the self..._

"I don't know exactly what you mean by that. Like as an individual?" He nods slowly.

"Sure."

My brow furrows deeply. "...It's all relative I guess. Why do you ask?"

"Couldn't say. You have more of a grasp on reality than most people. Still, that's not much of an answer."

"Well it's either that or a blanket generalization. Which would you prefer?"

He 'hmm's into my skin, I feel it reverberate in the crook of my neck.

I chuckle suddenly.

"What?" He coaxes.

"Not so much as an individual but... I think that you can't be called a man until you're nose-deep in pussy. I don't care how many- let me finish!" I interrupt my train of thought, amused by his contagiously vibrant laughter. "I don't care how many muscles you have or fights you've been in or people you've killed, you can't be called a man unless you know what to do with a woman."

"And what's your criteria for womanhood?" He asks, deeply amused. The dimples reappear.

I shrug and laugh. "It's a two way street."

"I that so?"

"So."

We lapse into easy silence, the room is still now. I watch dust sparkle and float easy through the air and hear the still silence rise. Otis breathing is heavy and I feel his deep heartbeat eventually slow. His eyes are closed again and he doesn't seem to want to move, his pants are still around his knees and he wastes no effort changing this. I, on the opposite end of the spectrum, am energized and calm at the same time, wide awake and lazy.

My hand absently strokes my torso, and the other his. "Hey."

He makes some non-committal grunt. My fingers fan up and down his chest, in the lightest of touches. "You still awake?"

"Yeah." He says through a yawn.

"Okay."

His brow furrows, the vacant smile still in place. "Was that all you wanted to ask me?"

"Mhmm." He laughs vaguely, quietly. I think he falls asleep. I hear a song in my head, lazily slow and low. I feel as if each inhaled breath travels deeper than the previous one, past my navel and down to my knees and let my mind drift away into profound silence.

Later.

Otis begins poking my thigh. "Get off me woman, I have an idea." I obligingly pull my legs free so he can move, which he does with purpose and awakened energy, beyond the curtain partition which ripples soothingly in his wake. He steps out of his pants halfway across the room.

I watch him leave. "You're pale."

"An excellent observation."

"I thought so." I sit up without realizing it at the time and stare blankly at my left hand. I feel the left half of my body, blood flowing, pulse pulsing. My mind empties after a few minutes. I can hear lush scratching and smoothing noises from behind the curtain. I find that I have no opinion on this. My world is silence.

Otis talks incoherently to himself as he works.

Later.

The sound of my restful voice is husky and low. "I smell coffee and good dreams..." Three deep breaths and sighs later I find my voice. "That's enough for now."

"No life changing revelations today?"

"_Ma__ň__ana."_

Otis scoffs from the other room. "Try again later, is that it?"

A solemn nod. "Don't underestimate baby steps, man, you might stumble but you'll get wherever it is you're going to. I go by the same technique with substance as I do with meditation... I is a mystery until you look inward to the deepest corners of one's very own soul... not the religious soul but in the _spiritual_ sense of course!" I finish and gradually open my eyes to the world, sleepily at first and becoming more animated as I continue speaking. Lifting my weighted limbs occupies my interest until I receive another thought to chew on. "I feel like I'm just stringing thoughts together, do they make sense to you?"

"More or less, I mean, most of what you say means nothing at all."

"_All_ of what I say means nothing at all." I correct.

"Then what does that mean?" He challenges.

"I just told you."

"Well obviously you mean _something_."

"I_ mean_ something, but do _I_ mean anything?" The silence ended with my short laugh, "I, as a fully formed individual, mean to tell you that nothing matters, and simultaneously prove that nothing matters. Y'see, I just informed you that everything is meaningless, including the language and connotations I used to inform you _with!_ What I say has no consequence or predetermined, what's the word – significance, and that's just what I'm _trying_ telling you. That it doesn't matter _anyway."_

"Hm, you're crazier than I am, mama." He concludes with finality as he re-enters and ruffles my hair and I laugh through the entanglement, my voice sound closer, being the slightest bit muffled by the mess of hair.

_Someday they'll have monuments_

_set up to reverend the mad_

_people of today in madhouses_

_As early pioneers in the knowing_

_that when you lose your reason_

_you attain the highest perfect knowing._

_Which is devoid of predicates_

_such as: "I am, I will, I reason-"_

_-devoid of saying:-"I will do it"_

_-devoid_

_Devoid of insanity as well by virtue_

_of no contact_

_But meanwhile these deterministic_

_doctors really do believe that mad is mad-_

_And have erected a billion-dollar_

_religion to it, called Psycho-medicine,_

_and ah-_

_Well we'll know the sanity_

_of Ard Bar_

_In the morning, some time, alone_

I remind myself of a later chorus of _Orizaba 210 Blues_. "I should write a haiku about that..." and I smile wryly as the words of a once-wise Kerouac fill my mind. "_Devoid of insanity as well by virtue of no contact..._"

Otis watches my face for a second or two from the curtain outcrop, he's donned jeans again and sits by me. The bed quivers in protest, putting a shiver in my lotus pose. "I gotta question."

"I gotta theory." I counter, feeling immature.

"Me first," And he asks me, completely serious, "How do you remember the best orgasm you've ever had?"

"Funny, that's part of my theory... but to answer your question, _gushing _wet and especially lovely," I add with a reminiscent smile and carefree wave of my arms.

He nods, not really listening. "And who do you owe that memory to?"

I can't help but grin smugly. "Myself." It's only a half lie. Or half truth, depends what you're into.

He smirks, blatantly holds down his comment then gets back up and returns to whatever it is that he is doing behind the curtain. "It sounds like you're beating off back there, want some help?" I say jokingly.

"If I was I'd say yes, you seem to have the skills of a surgeon."

"...Why do you immediately go to surgeon? What about painter or... fuck I don't know-"

"Who cares?" I'm silent.

Later.

"Good answer," I intone thoughtfully.


End file.
